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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456125">I Feel Like a Person for a Moment of my Life</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_Foxes/pseuds/Rainbow_Foxes'>Rainbow_Foxes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Constantine: The Hellblazer (Comics), Hellblazer, Red Hood: Lost Days</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Porn, Daddy Kink, It's not a Huge Part of the story and it's a little odd because of Pit Stuff but it's there, Jason uses an alias the whole time but rest assured that it is in fact him, John doesn't know shit about shit, John is over twice Jason's age, Kink Negotiation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Praise Kink, Talia is there for half a second at the end, Top Jason Todd, Trans Jason Todd, Unreliable Narrator, an ungodly amount of worldbuilding for what was supposed to be a pwp, kinda subby Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 23:14:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,650</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456125</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbow_Foxes/pseuds/Rainbow_Foxes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes out looking to drown his sorrows, either in a glass or someone else.</p>
<p>Lucky for him, a young man walks in the door that can give him exactly what he needs tonight.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Constantine/Jason Todd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>46</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Detective Holiday Exchange</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I Feel Like a Person for a Moment of my Life</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy New Year all! <br/>Mx called this pairing hard mode, so of course I had to do it. Hope I did them justice!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>    It’s a Saturday night on the cusp of spring. Everyone has crept out of their homes and to the pubs, tired of winter’s cold and seeking warmth from liquor and company that will sneak out the door as the sun rises. John would pity them for it if he wasn’t doing the same damn thing. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He takes a drag of his Silk Cut and holds it — lets the smoke fill his lungs, luxuriates in the burn of his throat. He holds it long enough that his body starts to ache from the lack of air rather than the heat before he lets it go. The grey tendrils escape him slowly and join the thick haze of smoke that hangs around the pub like fog. The place is loud to the point of not being so, the music and chatter cancelling each other out to make a white noise John barely hears. He’s padded by the smoke and the sound, alone in a sea of people.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>    Just like always</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he supposes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He downs the rest of his gin and tonic to chase away the thought. It never brings him anything good, thinking like that. He’ll just get depressed, try to drown his sorrows, then get a beating when his drunken arse picks a fight with some shithead and his shithead buddies. Never a good time, but something that has been happening with increasing regularity since his 50th birthday last year. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John shakes his head and takes another drag of his cigarette. His mind won’t give him a break, will it? He needs a distraction — someone who’s bed he can warm and will forget his name before their morning cuppa, someone who he won’t get attached to and won’t get attached to him. </span>
  <strike>
    <span>(Someone who won’t go on to fill the graveyard of people stupid enough to trust him.)</span>
  </strike>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    ... Maybe two distractions, since he seems bent on making the night difficult for himself.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He drags his eyes over the crowd of familiar strangers, looking for what he needs. No one catches his eye. They’re all too young, kids in their early twenties who think moving out of mummy and daddy’s house makes them grown. It’s painful to see how confident they are, how sure they are that nothing can touch them. The invincibility of youth runs rampant, and he doesn’t want to be the one to destroy the illusion for them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John is ready to give up the game before he even starts — to resign himself to a hangover and a fat lip come morning — when the door to the pub opens. In walks a man who brings a spring chill with him, fresh and crisp and cutting through the smoky haze of the pub like a sharp breath blowing out a candle. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> a man, despite being of an age or younger than the kids in the pub. Even from across the room, John can see the way he carries himself — heavy with something John is all too familiar with, always moving with a goal in mind and with grace that belays a certain kind of experience. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He watches the man make his way to the bar, watches him slide between the crowd like he’s done it every day of his life. The man manages to snag a seat at the counter and get the bartender’s attention with little effort before fading into the background noise of the pub. If he hadn’t been watching him, John would have never known he was there. He’s heard about people being able to do this, being able to make themselves the center of attention or part of the backdrop at a moment’s notice. But watching it happen in real time? He would almost call it magic.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    But this isn’t even the most interesting thing about this man. Far from it. He </span>
  <em>
    <span>reeks</span>
  </em>
  <span> of magic — death magic, to be precise. It’s sickly sweet and cloying, the smell of wilting flowers tinged with blood overwhelming everything else. It sobers John better than anything else could. Necromancy was difficult and dangerous, something he doesn’t touch with a barge pole if he can help it. This man though, it’s almost like he bathed in it, rubbed it into his skin until it became a part of him. John knows that he will be nothing but trouble.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    It’s exactly the kind of distraction he needs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John puts out his cigarette as he stands. He grabs his coat off the back of his chair and makes his way through the crowd. He lacks the grace the other man had, bumping into people with mumbled apologies and half hearted grins. But he, miraculously, reaches the bar without starting a fight. He slides into an empty space next to the man and hails the bartender down for another G &amp; T.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Being so close now, the magic clinging to the man is palpable, tangible. John feels like he could grab a handful from the air if he wanted to. If he breathes too deeply, he thinks he’ll be able to feel it enter him, fill him, and leave him hollow and wanting. He takes a large breath through his nose, lets the scent of sweet decay and death sink into him as he takes a closer look at the man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He’s just as young as John suspected — barely 20, if that. He’s dressed in a black leather jacket with a bright red hoodie underneath and John wonders how he isn’t sweltering from the heat. With so many people pressed so close together, John waits for a bead of sweat to form at the man’s brow and trace it’s way down his bronze skin, but it never happens. If anything, he seems cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    His drink is placed in front of him by the bartender and he takes it with a nod. He brings the glass to his lips and takes a sip, watching the man’s lips twist as he looks over the bar menu. He darts his eyes down to the man’s hands, notes the heavy scarring around his fingertips, then looks back up into a pair of irritated and lovely teal eyes watching him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    They’re striking, really — a vibrant color that reminds John of ancient statues and old copper fixtures left to the mercies of time. They’re framed by thick, dark eyebrows and freckles that can only be seen if you look closely. The only thing that could distract from them is the long, deep scar that stretches from the left corner of the kid’s mouth and across his cheek to his temple. Someone had tried to give this man a Glasgow smile. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John kinda hopes that he made the fucker bleed for it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You just gonna stare all night, or are you gonna tell me what the hell you want?” The man’s voice is thick with agitation and an American accent. John can’t pinpoint it beyond the East Coast, but he likes it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Think I’ll do a little of both, if you don’t mind. Wanna tell me your name?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The man snorts. “Not particularly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “That’s awfully rude of you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “So is staring.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John tips his glass in his direction. “Touché,” He takes a sip of his drink. “My name’s John, by the way.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Don’t care, didn’t ask. I suggest you leave if you like all your teeth.” The man picks back up his menu, an effort to ignore him that John is going to in turn ignore.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John hums. “You aren’t going to find anything you want on there. Americans don’t tend to have a taste for English food.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “That’s because y’all invaded the rest of the world for spices and then never learned how to use them.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He can’t hold back a laugh. “You sure got a mouth on you, Kid. There’s a Thai place a few blocks over, you’ll probably have more luck there. My treat.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The man lowers the menu again, giving John an appraising look. “And why do you wanna take a stranger who threatened to knock out your teeth to dinner?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Well for one, I want to know your name. And second,” John leans in close and looks the man dead in the eye. He doesn’t flinch. “I want to know why you smell like death.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John barely has time to blink before the man grabs his arm and pulls him in close, gliding something sharp against his belly.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>   “Who are you?”</span>
  </em>
  <span> It’s a low growl of a question; a promise of danger. His eyes have narrowed to slits, and almost seem to be glowing green.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John grins.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I told you Kid, my name is John. John Constantine. I’m a sorcerer, I know magic when I feel it and it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>rolling</span>
  </em>
  <span> off of you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John feels the man stiffen, sees his thought process work it’s way across his face. So he recognizes him, then?</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Pay your tab and meet me outside.” With that the man releases John and disappears into the crowd.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>John rubs at his arm, curious if it will bruise. He almost wants it to; it’ll give him something to poke and prod at for a few days. He knocks back the rest of his drink and shakes his head at the burn of liquor rushing down his throat. He clears his tab and shrugs on his coat, making his way through the crowd and out the door as he shakes out another Silk Cut, pops it between his lips and lights it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>John exits the pub onto a quiet street and exhales smoke into the cold evening air. The man is waiting for him, of course. Leaning against a lamppost, hands tucked into his pockets and the light above him bringing out subtle red undertones in his dark hair, he looks like every single bad idea from the movies. John knows now to look for the shape of a knife in his pocket, but he can’t find it. Which just makes him wonder what else the man is hiding on his person.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“You going to tell me your name now or just stand there looking menacing?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>The man huffs and stands up straight, walking over to John. He gets close, too close to be friendly, but John doesn’t budge. Instead he appreciates the size of the man in front of him. He stands taller than John by a fair few centimeters and is built thick, like a brawler. John should be intimidated, knows that intimidating him was probably the whole point of this little display, but he isn’t. He can’t be. He’s too old to be pushed around by some young buck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Besides, it’s hard to be afraid of a man when you’ve faced down the Devil himself and won.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The man meets his eye and holds his gaze. John cocks a brow and takes a drag of his cigarette. The man must see something he likes, something that helps him make up his mind, because he steps back with an appraising look. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Call me Peter.” He says. John knows it’s a fake name, but he doesn’t question it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Right then, Peter. We going for Thai or do you want to hash this out here on the pavement?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I suppose I could eat. You’re paying, though.” Peter taps out a cigarette from a familiar pack of Silk Cuts and slips it between his lips. “Bum a light?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Might as well, considering you already stole the cigs from me.” John huffs, pulling out his lighter. Peter grins around the cigarette in his mouth and snatches the lighter out of John’s hand. He takes a deep drag and holds it, eyes fluttering as he exhales twisting smoke into the dark.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“It’s not stealing if you don’t notice they’re gone.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Pretty sure it doesn’t work that way, kid.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Nah, I’m pretty sure it does.” He tosses the pack and lighter back to John. “So, dinner?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>The walk is quiet, for the most part. Peter doesn’t seem interested in talking. Rather, he seems more interested in eyeing the people they pass like he expects to see someone he knows. John is content with the silence. It gives him the opportunity to watch how Peter’s gaze slides off of a woman in a thick coat to follow something only he can see before darting over to a man making a phone call in an alley. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>It reminds him of Nigel. His eyes used to dart about the same way, watching ghosts go about their business on the streets. Nigel was never as subtle about it, always looked a bit squirrelly. That also could have been the socialist paranoia, now that he thinks about it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>It’s been a decade and fuck if John didn’t still miss him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter might be a medium, but he’s never known a medium to carry death around them like Peter does. It dogs his heels, an ever present warning sign for anyone sensitive enough to catch sight of it. It’s almost like he took a piece of Death herself and strung it on a cord around his neck. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    They make it to the restaurant with little fanfare. There’s a table free when they walk in despite the busy night. John can tell Peter isn’t happy with being in the middle of the room, but he’ll have to deal with it. He lets Peter take the seat that will give him eyes on the door, a simple courtesy that will do more to make Peter comfortable than inconvenience John. It’s the least he could do, given the conversation he’s about to start.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Except Peter beats him to the punch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What did you mean, that I smell like death?” Straight to the point, and they haven’t even ordered their drinks yet. And John thought he was impatient.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Exactly what I said. You smell like you’ve been sleeping in Death’s bed. Necromantic magic is clinging to you like I’ve never seen before. What did you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter stares at him hard for a few moments, long enough for their server to come over and ask for their drink orders. It’s like a switch is flipped. Peter goes from stony silence to friendly patron in a second, ordering a pint with a smile. John orders one as well, figuring he’s done with liquor for the night but not quite ready to sober up fully.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The server leaves them and Peter watches until they disappear into the back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Well?” John asks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I died.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Fuck, Kid.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter snorts. “That’s one way to put it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The server comes back with their drinks. Peter takes his with a smile, as if he hadn’t just thrown a proverbial bomb into John’s lap. He orders a prawn stir fry with perfect pronunciation of the Thai name while John stumbles over his own curry dish. The server is off again and John is chomping at the bit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You don’t look all that dead to me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Clearly I got better.” Peter says, taking a sip of his beer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “And how’d you do that?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “No idea. One second I’m... elsewhere, and the next I’m waking up in my casket.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John eyes the scars on Peter’s fingers. “Sounds like hell.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “That’s putting it mildly.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “And you came back like this? Healthy, normal, nothing wrong with you?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Fuck no. It wasn’t until a few years later I got everything back.” John opens his mouth to ask, but Peter cuts him off. “And no, I can’t tell you about that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John holds his hands up. “No need to get titchy, Mate. You can’t fault a man for his curiosity.” He takes a sip of his beer. “Can I ask where you were buried?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter looks at him strangely. “Gotham, It’s where I’m from. Don’t see why that matters, though.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John takes another drink of his beer and rubs at his forehead. “I was more fishing to see if you knew if you were buried on any sort of sacred or otherwise magical grounds, but it being Gotham might be enough to do it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter arches an eyebrow, obviously wanting him to go on. So he does.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What you need to understand is that cities aren’t just places, they’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive.</span>
  </em>
  <span> With people loving and hating and bleeding all the time, how can they not be? Thankfully, most cities are asleep. They dream and those dreams can suck you right in, but they won’t kill you. Probably.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “But Gotham? She’s another beast altogether. She’s awake, has been for years. She was just getting Her bearings the last time I went there, back in ‘88, I think it was. Still groggy, maybe sleeping with Her eyes open. Doesn’t matter, it was enough to make me never want to go back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What’s that got to do with me?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Maybe nothing.” John admits. “But Gotham’s awake, and if She liked you enough or has a purpose for you that you haven’t filled yet, it’s possible She’s what brought you back.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter goes silent at that, staring down into his beer. John lets him, even covers the niceties with the server when they bring their food around. He understands that this can be a lot to take in. But watching the bloke pick at his food with clearly too much to think about was just sad, really. Peter had given John a much needed distraction for the evening, it’s only right to do the same for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You know I met the King of the Vampires?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter looks up at him. “Bullshit, vampires aren’t real.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “They are! And their king is a frigging prick, I tell you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Yeah?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Oh yeah. He wrote a message in bird entrails on my washroom mirror. Wanted me to spy on other magicians for him. Told him to eat shit.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “And what’d he have to say to that?” Peter’s eyes are glinting with interest, eager for a good story.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    So John gives it to him. He tells him about that meeting, and killing the King by letting him drink his demon-tainted blood and monologue until the sun rose. And he tells him about the Lord of the Dance and what it’s like to party with a god. They order another round of beer, and Peter tells him about stealing the tyres off a rich man’s car and his older brother teaching him how to fly without wings. Another round, and John tells him about Brennan and Kit and Peter talks about two boys named Eddie and Danny. One last round and Peter is talking about his younger brother — a little shit of a kid that has a soft spot for animals — and John is gushing about Gemma and how proud he is of her.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter ends up covering the bill and John has to stop him from leaving their server a tip. He’s pretty sure he still slid a couple 20 pound notes under one of the glasses for them to pick up. Even tipsy, the man has more grace and tact than John on a good day. John himself is well on his way to pissed, but not quite there yet. He’s pleasantly buzzed, warm and floating and for once not dwelling on his demons.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    They make their way outside. Peter is looser than he’s been all night, free of tension that John only just realizes he was carrying. It makes him look his age,  young and happy and not weighed down by the world. It’s a good look on him, if John is being honest. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it, enjoying the heat of the smoke in his lungs.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You wanna come back to my place for a cuppa?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter gives him an appraising look. “Just for tea?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John leans in close, lit cigarette dangling from his lips. “If that’s what you want. Or we could get to know each other a little better.” He lets some heat leak into his voice, is careful to keep his balance and his words straight. Peter doesn’t strike him as the kind of man to like his partners drunk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You think you’re sober enough for that?” looks like he was right on his assumption.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I’ll do the walk and turn right now if you need me to.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter grazes a hand across John’s hip, the first time he’s touched him since the pub. Before it was a thrill, now it’s electric. He likes his lips. “I don’t take it from men I just met at the bar.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John leans in closer, lets some of his weight lean on the other man. “Do you give it to them, then?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter smiles, slow and sensual and everything John was hoping for. He plucks John’s cigarette from his mouth and puts it between his own lips. Taking a long drag, he releases it slowly, letting the smoke coil and disappear between them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Yeah, I can do that.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>They end up getting a taxi to John’s flat. If they hadn’t, John’s pretty sure they never would have made it there. He would have pulled Peter into some alley and sucked him dry, let him rut between his thighs until John begged him to fuck him. As it stands, He leans in close to Peter in the back of the taxi, whispering dirty things in his ear while the man grips his thigh tight in warning and promise.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>It’s going to bruise, he knows. He hopes Peter leaves more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>When they pull up to his building John gives the driver an extra tenner to keep what he saw to himself. He isn’t worried about retaliation, not in this neighborhood, but it never hurts to be careful. No matter what laws they pass, John still remembers the West London murders, what happened to the Admiral Duncan. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>John leads Peter up the stairs, not for the first time regretting having a walk up. When they make it to his door Peter presses against his back, a warm, solid heat that holds enough promise to make John fumble his keys and curse. Peter laughs and backs off just a smidge, enough to give John some breathing room he didn’t really want.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>He finally gets the door open and pulls Peter in. The door is barely closed before John is dropping his coat and loosening his tie. Peter watches him with hunger in his eyes, tracking every movement of his shoulders and following his hands like a cat watching a mouse.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“What are your rules, Peter?” John says, stepping into his personal space. He runs his hands up the man’s torso, feeling the muscle under layers of fabric.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“I don’t like skat, piss, whatever you call it. I don’t want my hair pulled. Degradation is a no and... I’d like to see you, during; for you to look at me.” The last part is accompanied by a brilliant blush that goes from his cheeks down to his neck. John’s eager to see how far down it goes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>John hums. “Works for me Kid, I’m not much for the mean shite. Well, doing it to others, anyways. I’ve got a feeling though — you want to be a good boy, don’t you?” Peter gives a shaky exhale and bites his lip. It’s all the answer John needs. He tugs on the zipper for Peter’s jacket, drawing it down slowly and letting his knuckles graze his torso as he goes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Mmm, I think you do. Do you want me to call you something special, Love? Do you want me to be your Daddy for the night? Your Sir? Something else?” He’s got Peter’s jacket open now, and slides his hands under the fabric and around his waist, pulling him close. Peter takes a moment to answer, but when he does it makes John’s heart pound and his cock twitch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Will you call me Baby, Daddy?” His voice is deep with lust, a rumble that John can feel under his fingertips. He would normally say the tone doesn’t suit the words, but with Peter? It </span>
  <em>
    <span>works</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Of course I will, Baby.” John slides his hands back around to Peter’s front and pushes his jacket off his shoulders. It drops to the floor with a low thud. John runs his hands back down Peter’s torso to the hem of his hoodie. He slides his hands under it and the t-shirt he’s wearing underneath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter’s skin is warm beneath his touch, his stomach twitching under his grazing fingertips. John runs his fingers up to Peter’s nipples and thumbs over them, making the man shudder. He then slides his hands over Peter’s sides and across his back, digging his nails in slightly to scratch and draw a groan out from the younger man.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John removes his hands from Peter’s skin and tugs on the hoodie. “Take this off for me, the shirt too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter does as he’s told, stripping the clothing off quickly. That’s fine by John, the ripple of his muscles is more than enough of a show for him. He takes in the scars on the skin in front of him — a handful of small cuts, what may be one from a bullet, some gently faded and well healed surgical scars under his pecs, but most prominent is the large Y-incision that runs from below Peter’s belt line to his shoulders. It’s a mean, angry looking scar, something people aren’t supposed to come back from. But Peter did. Hanging just above it on a corded necklace is a small bundle of white and red flowers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John wants to ask, but instead leans down and presses a kiss to Peter’s chest, right where the Y splits in two. “Beautiful, Baby. So pretty for Daddy.” He peppers kisses up to Peter’s neck, running his hands over his sides and up his back, mapping the skin under his fingertips. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter shudders a breath and braces his hands on John’s hips. He tilts his head back, giving John room to suck a hickey over his pulsepoint. He pushes John away, but only enough to untuck John’s shirt from his pants and begin working on the buttons. Each one undone makes him clumsier, needier, until he reaches John’s tie and uses it to pull John off the bruise he’s leaving on neck and to his lips for a searing kiss.</span>
</p>
<p><span>    It’s not a sweet kiss. It’s sloppy and desperate and makes John clutch Peter closer to him so he can grind his covered cock against the man’s hip. He licks his way into Peter’s mouth and the man doesn’t fight him at all. Peter invites him in, dances his tongue around John’s in a way that screams </span><em><span>touch me, have me, </span></em><b><em>I</em></b> <b><em>want it.</em></b></p>
<p>
  <span>    Who is he to deny him?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John eases out of the kiss, but Peter keeps chasing after his mouth with his own. “Such an eager baby.” He says against Peter’s lips. “I love it. But if you want me to take care of you, you have to let me get undressed.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter moves from his lips to press kisses along his jaw to his ear, which he gives a gentle nip to. “Let me undress you Daddy. I want to touch you.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John groans. “Yeah, Love. Undress your daddy.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter sets to work. He presses kisses down the column of John’s neck as he undoes his tie, mouthing over his Adam’s apple as he pushes the shirt from John’s shoulders. John can’t help but moan as Peter brushes his cock while untucking his undershirt. Nimble, strong fingers chase the shirt up his torso, stopping to tease his nipples for a moment. He leans into the touch and feels Peter smile against his throat before pulling away to coax the undershirt over John’s head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter closes back in, mouthing over John’s collarbone. John cards his fingers through Peter’s hair, careful not to pull but desperate to touch. Peter starts to kiss down John’s chest, pausing to lick and nibble at one of his nipples. John lets lose a soft moan which grows louder as Peter sucks harder on the sensitive bud. He pulls off with a pop and moves to the other one, laving it with attention until it's red and swollen between his teeth. Then he moves down, pressing light kisses down John’s sternum and over his stomach until he’s kneeling before him and eyeing his belt.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter presses a kiss to the skin right above John’s waistline, then carefully takes one of John’s feet into his lap. It throws him off balance, making John brace himself on Peter’s shoulders. Peter's eyes go wide. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I’m sorry, I didn’t think —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John squeezes his shoulder lightly. “You’re good Baby, just warn me next time.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Yes Daddy.” Peter nods, and sets to untying John’s shoe. He carefully removes it, then dances his fingers up John’s foot to roll his sock off. He asks for John’s other foot and does the same.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He sets John’s foot down gently, then runs his hands up his thighs, squeezing where he knows he left a bruise earlier that night. John groans at the sensation and Peter grins. With a twinkle in his eye Peter mouths over John’s belt until he finds the end. He takes the leather between  his teeth and works it through the belt buckle. Peter undoes the button the same way, then</span>
  <em>
    <span> slowly</span>
  </em>
  <span> pulls the zipper down with his teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John squeezes his shoulder again. “That’s a good boy. I knew you had a clever mouth, do you want to show Daddy how else you use it?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter nods and slides John’s trousers and underwear down together. His cock is hard and throbbing, pink from arousal and already dripping precum. Peter licks his lips and takes it in hand, testing the weight of it. His touch makes John buck with a sharp exhale. Peter presses a little kiss to the shaft, then gives John a look.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Daddy, I need to get a —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Of course Baby. There’s one in my wallet, should be in the pocket of my trousers.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter digs through the piles of clothes at John’s feet and pulls out his wallet. He’s polite about it, not asking about the pictures he keeps in it, only digging out the condom and tossing the wallet aside. He gives the package a quick once over to check for damage then tears it open with his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter gives John a wink, fits the condom carefully into his mouth, then sinks down onto John’s cock to the root. John can’t help the moan that escapes his lips at the feel of it. Peter hums around him, clearly pleased at his reaction. He comes off John’s prick and grins at him, all mischief and delight.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Do you want me to show you what else I can do?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Of course Love. Show me how good you are.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter doesn’t waste a moment. He runs his lips along the side of John’s cock, leaving little kisses from root to tip. Flicking his tongue on that delicate piece of skin that connects the head to the shaft makes John buck his hips, so Peter does it twice more before taking the head into his mouth. He swirls his tongue, licking all around the head to find the most sensitive parts and give them his full attention. He looks up at John with those pretty teal eyes of his and hollows his cheeks before taking him down further. John puts a hand to his head, gently petting his hair and babbling praises.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Such a good boy, Baby. Look at you, so handsome with my cock in your mouth. Just like that, take Daddy’s cock just like that.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter hums again and slides down as deep as he can, his nose brushing the golden hairs at the base of John’s cock. If that wasn’t enough, he starts working his throat ever so slightly, tightening and relaxing it to a steady rhythm. He doesn’t stay down long, just enough to make John’s legs shake. He pops back off with a wild look, drool smearing across his lips. Then he takes John’s cock in hand and swipes his tongue along the underside. He licks down until he’s grazing his tongue over John’s balls. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter gives them a few kitten licks before taking one into his mouth. He’s gentle with it, sucking lightly and rolling it with his tongue. He releases it and gives it a small kiss before taking the other one and doing the same. John bites into his own hand, not to silence himself but to keep him from pulling too harshly on Peter’s hair or pushing the man’s head. Peter releases John’s other testicle and he lets himself breath, only for a moan to shake him as Peter presses his tongue to the space behind John’s sac with the perfect amount of pressure. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He could cum like this, he knows, so he pulls Peter away and up for a sloppy, needy kiss. It’s wet and messy and it makes him </span>
  <em>
    <span>ache</span>
  </em>
  <span>, makes Peter whine and squirm in his grip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Mmm Baby, you take such good care of Daddy. It’s my turn to take care of you.” He says as he pulls away from the kiss.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John leads Peter to his bedroom by the hand then pushes him onto the bed. He kneels at his feet and quickly works his boots and socks off, pressing a kiss to each ankle before rising to help him out of his jeans. Peter isn’t waiting for him, already having the fly undone and a hand down his underwear. John slides the clothes the rest of the way off and finally takes in Peter in his entirety.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    The man has thighs that John would be glad to die between, if given the chance. Thick and muscled and clearly Heaven-sent. Peter has his hand on his cock, jerking it eagerly as he preened under John’s gaze. Uncut, thick and long with a heavy sac at the base. Truely, one of the most beautiful pricks John has ever seen, and he can’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>wait</span>
  </em>
  <span> to get it in him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He lays down next to Peter, pulling him in for another kiss and batting his hand away from his cock. He takes it in his grip, feels the texture of it, the warmth, the weight, the way it twitches when John grinds against Peter’s hip. He nips at Peter’s skin, determined to leave his mark. John worries a hickey right above his collarbone, and soothes it with a kiss. Then he pulls back and makes Peter look him in the eye.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Why don’t you put on a show for Daddy while I get myself ready for you, Baby?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter nods and scoots back further onto the bed, propping himself up on the pillows with his legs spread wide. John watches him grip his cock and slowly jerk it, looking at him with those pretty eyes and biting his lip.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John reaches over him to dig through his nightstand for his lube. He finds the tube and sits back. Laying back on the bed, he spreads his legs wide, giving Peter a full view of him. He lubes up his fingers then slowly massages his hole, teasing himself and relaxing the muscle at the same time. Peter likes the view, he can tell by how his fist stutters before picking up the pace over his cock.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John grins. It’s his turn to make Peter lose his cool.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Do you like what you see, Love?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Yes Daddy.” Peter’s voice is shaky, losing any attempt at a higher pitch he may have been trying to put on. John slides a finger into himself and can’t help arching into it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You like seeing me finger myself open for you? Like knowing that Daddy is going to let you fuck his ass?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter groans and squeezes his cock, thrusting up into his own fist. “Yes Daddy. I wanna fuck you, make you feel good.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “What a good boy, wanting to take care of his Daddy. But you have to wait until I say so. Why don’t you play with your chest for me? Let me see how my baby teases himself.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter reluctantly lets go of his prick and brings both of his hands to his pecs. He squeezes them, gives them a little massage before rubbing his areolas. They’re sensitive, if his little sigh is anything to go by. He flicks his thumbs over the peaks a few times, working them up to stiffness before he gently pinches them. Peter’s eyes flutter shut and he leans back further, fully indulging in the sensation.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Perfect Baby, you’re doing so well.” John says, then pours more lube onto his fingers and adds a second, working himself open. He moans at the feeling, which makes Peter open his eyes. His baby is transfixed at the sight, mouth hanging open and fingers stilled over his chest.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Look at you, so needy for Daddy’s ass. Tell me what you want to do to me, Love.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “I want to fuck you so good Daddy. I want you to ride me and cum on my cock. You look so tight, I wanna open you up with my mouth. Please Daddy, let me eat your ass.” Fuck if that isn’t tempting. But John doesn’t have any dental dams and is too worked up to try to make one out of a condom.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Sorry Baby, I can’t do that. Since you want something in your mouth so bad, why don’t you suck on your fingers? You looked so good sucking on my cock, I bet you'd look good like that too.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter whines but does as he’s told. He starts by licking the tips of his fingers, weaving his tongue in between them, getting them good and wet. Then he slides two of them into his mouth, running his tongue over them and showing John exactly what he would do with something else in his mouth instead. Peter closes his lips around his fingers and sucks, trying to look as obscene as possible, he’s sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John decides to reward them both by adding a third finger to his ass. “Such a good boy for me. I’m almost ready for you Baby. Grab a condom out of the nightstand, put it on and lay back for me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter scrambles to do so and is eagerly waiting for John before he knows it. John pulls his fingers from himself with a moan and crawls until he’s hovering over Peter’s straining cock. He pours some of the lube on it, watching Peter shiver.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Ready Baby?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Yes Da—oh my God.” John plants his hands on Peter’s chest and slides down onto his cock without letting him finish his sentence. He moans at the stretch and gives a slow exhale once he’s fully seated. He only gives himself a moment to adjust before he starts moving.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter’s hands fly to John’s hips, helping him set a rhythm. John digs his nails into Peter’s chest, causing him to buck up. John hums.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “You like it when I’m rough with you? That’s good Baby, Daddy likes it too. I’m going to mark you up and I expect you to do the same.” With that he leans over and sinks his teeth into the meat of Peter’s shoulder. Peter groans in response and grips his hips tight, slamming up into John.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Their pace gets faster, their movements rougher. John leaves bright red marks on every inch of Peter he can reach — blooming hickies on his neck, long scratches over his pecs and bite marks that very nearly draw blood on his shoulders. In return Peter leaves him bouquets of bruises. John can almost make out the shape of Peter’s hands on his hips and he’s looking forward to the molted purple his wrists will turn from Peter urging him to scratch him harder.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Fuck Daddy, I’m close.” Peter growls out. John kisses him hard and speeds up his pace. He’s close too, but he wants his baby to come first. Peter’s movements start to stutter and he grabs John’s cock, pumping him rapidly as his orgasm hits him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John pulls away from the kiss “Good boy, cumming for me. I’m almost there, Baby, just a little more.” Peter tugs just the right way and John comes crashing after him. He rides out his orgasm, drawing it out as much as he can before collapsing over Peter, who wraps his arms around John and holds him, still trembling from the aftershocks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John doesn’t move until Peter’s soft prick slides out of him. He groans at the loss but rolls over onto the bed. He pulls off his condom and ties it off, tossing it vaguely to the side. He drapes his forearm over his eyes and curls his toes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Damn kid, that was fucking something.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    He hears a snort of a laugh, then some rustling. The opening of something, then the familiar sound of a lighter. Soon the smell of nicotine fills the room. John peaks over his arm. “Did you steal another one of my cigs?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “No, I obviously had this one hidden between my ass cheeks.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John rolls his eyes and turns onto his side. He eyes Peter, totally relaxed with his eyes closed and a cigarette hanging from his lips. He smirks and plucks it from his mouth, bringing it to his own.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Rude.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Oh shut up, you did it to me first.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “But it was hot when I did it. You’re just denying a guest an amenity.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    John snorts. “Stay for breakfast and I’ll show you amenities.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Sure, why not?” Peter says with a yawn. “Just don’t kick me in your sleep.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    “Wouldn’t dream of it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>    Peter is asleep before John finishes his cigarette. He puts out the butt in the ashtray, pulls up the covers, and settles in for the best sleep he’s had in a while.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  
  <span>John wakes up to a cold bed. He’s not sure if he’s surprised or not, really. Peter seemed the type to cut and run from the get-go, but...</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>It doesn’t matter, better the little ache in his chest now than another grave later, anyways. He rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom. The tile is cold under his bare feet, the chilly air makes him shiver a bit. He turns on the shower and eyes himself in the mirror as he waits for it to heat up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>He looks a mess, just like most mornings. Only difference is that today he’s covered in bruises. They’ve turned a lovely shade of purple overnight and ache wonderfully, a perfect counterbalance to the headache beating behind his eyes. He’ll be rubbing his knuckles into the one on his thigh for days, using it to ground him in a good moment instead of the misery he makes his company.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>He doesn’t keep track of how long he’s in the shower for. Long enough to scrub the dried lube from his skin, certainly. Most definitely long enough to masterbate to how pretty Peter had looked on his knees last night, to remember the feeling of his tongue and his little smirk. 100% long enough to feel oddly guilty about it afterwards, and for the water to run cold.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>He steps out of the shower and ties a towel to his waist. He makes his way out to the kitchen, intent on making himself some toast and coffee when he stops short. There’s Peter, sitting at his kitchen table, cup of coffee in hand and a bag from a place down the street that serves breakfast muffins. It’s a nice surprise, certainly. But not the most surprising thing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>There’s a woman sitting across from him. A rather beautiful one at that, who seems like she’d rather be anywhere but in John’s flat. Her hands are kept in her lap like she thinks she’ll catch something by touching his table. She’s clearly irritated at Peter, who seems perfectly content to let her stew.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>She turns her gaze to him. Sharp emerald eyes take him in, analyzing everything about him in a matter of seconds. Whatever she finds makes her arch a brow and turn to Peter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Habibi,</span>
  </em>
  <span> you can do better.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Oi!” She’s probably right, but she doesn’t have to say it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Talia, don’t be rude.” Peter stands and grabs the bag off the table, walking over to John.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“I, uh, got you breakfast? You didn’t have a whole lot in your fridge.” Peter rubs the back of his head, looking unsure for the first time in the small period John has known him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Thanks Kid, I —”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>“Don’t mention it.” He looks conflicted for a moment, then squares his shoulders. “I mean that. It’s probably for the best that you forget you met me. Things are going to get... messy, soon. You shouldn’t get caught up in it.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>John's taken aback. Sure he didn’t expect this to go anywhere, but for it to be such a sharp end? It’s a lot for his state of mind. He doesn’t have the energy to argue. “Sure, whatever you say.” He pauses for a moment, then continues. “But if you’re ever in London again, don’t be afraid to look me up. You’re good company, could use that every now and then.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Peter nods and smiles, “Sure, John. I’ll see you around.” And John knows it’s a lie. He lets it slide; let’s Peter walk away while he stands there in a towel holding a bag of take away like an idiot. There’s not much he can do, really.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>The woman walks out the door, not sparing him a second glance. Peter follows her. He stops though. He stops at the door and gives John a look. John says nothing, doesn’t know what there is </span>
  <em>
    <span>to</span>
  </em>
  <span> say; he doesn’t even know why this hurts as much as it does. It was only supposed to be a distraction, something for John to sink his teeth into to forget everything he’s ever fucked up.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>Peter looks away and walks out the door.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
  <span>John wonders if 10 am is too early to start drinking.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Some notes:<br/>- If you're unfamiliar with Constantine, yes the events I mention for him are canon. the Hellblazer comics are wild, go read them<br/>- the concept of cities being alive but sleeping is from the Sandman comics. go read those too.<br/>- I set this around 2004, hence John just turning 50 (as he turned 40 in 1993). The West London murders and the bombing of the Admiral Duncan pub were actual acts of violence against gay men during the many years John lives in London. <br/>- I hc the Pits as giving you your ideal body. Jason's ideal body is having a big dick and being exactly one (1) inch taller than Bruce. He has top surgery scars because I feel like he'd never want to be mistaken for not-queer, that being trans is something important to him that he doesn't want to brush off.<br/>- Ask me about the flowers on the necklace :)<br/>- John is going to squint at a news report about a bomb going off over the Thames in a few weeks and wonder if "Peter" has anything to do with it.<br/>Let me know what you think! any and all feedback is always welcome.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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